The Exponent of Breath
by Slippin' Mickeys
Summary: This, my friends, is the end.
1. Default Chapter

In that split second between life and death, in that flashpoint of all that you are-sins forgotten and understanding attained-that is when you know what love is.  
  
The closest he'd come to understanding it before was in the cradle of her hips, her breath soft and hot against his cheek. It was in the lilt of a co- ed's voice, reading poetry to her lover in a coffee house, overheard and uncaring.  
  
"Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation, and the exponent of breath."  
  
It was the whorls of her fingerprints, pressed into his skin. Fireworks across a frozen lake. It was altitude and speed, the metal around you a supersonic streak of grey.  
  
It was purpose and frustration, illumination and regret. Le petite mort. A shot of morphine and a streak of red. It was her smile in profile, composed against the sky.  
  
And it was a wonder to him that he'd known it, and a wretched disappointment that it was gone.  
  
_________________________________  
  
He was hungry and stuck in traffic. Even the gaudy neon of the Beltway Burger held a little appeal.  
  
He was getting used to the commute to the Pentagon but he'd never get used to the gridlock. He looked off in the distance, to where a missle-defense vehicle guarded the Washington memorial. He'd never get used to that, either.  
  
A cold front had blasted down from Canada, picked up moisture over the Great Lakes, and was now dumping snow over most o the Eastern Seaboard.  
  
He'd lived in DC long enough to know that even the promise of a white Christmas wasn't enough to dissuade the general populace from snow panic and especially bad driving.  
  
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and decided to phone Mac. Her cell rang twice before she picked up.  
  
"Running late again?" She asked, skipping a greeting.  
  
"Not my fault this time, you can blame the snow."  
  
"Snow is a blameless entity," she said, "I mean, you can't sue snow. I had someone try once."  
  
"In that case, blame the government, everyone else does."  
  
She chuckled through the earpiece.  
  
"What's your ETA, sailor?"  
  
"I'd say about 45 minutes."  
  
"Then I'll meet you at your place. And I'll bring dinner. I can hear your stomach growling from here."  
  
"You suppose you'll beat me there?"  
  
"I know better than to take the beltway."  
  
"Jarhead spidey sense?"  
  
"Second X chromosome," he could hear her smile. "I'll see you at home, Harm."  
  
"Bye, Sarah."  
  
Neither of them hung up right away. Looking back, she would often say that somehow, she knew. 


	2. The Exponent of Breath Part Two

WARNING: Déjà vu ahead. As promised, I completely re-wrote the first part of this story, and what was originally part one is now part two. I'd advise going back to the first chapter here at ff.net and re-reading straight on through to the end of part two. And for those with a C.D. premonition, just bear with me. I promise to end the story with the characters exactly how I found them. Mostly. Again, a huge thank you to everyone who has sent feedback and reviews. There's no story without you.  
  
OH, and this story is still WIP-licious. Parts may be changed at any time, and it will probably go through a massive overhaul and rewrite before it's finished.  
  
PART TWO  
  
It had been thirteen months before, but he could remember every detail. Everything seemed more clear since then, he thought, and flashed on a Monday morning. . .  
  
Blue eyes met brown in the middle of a doorway.  
  
"Moment of truth," Harm said under his breath.  
  
He squeezed Mac's elbow and they went into the admiral's office. Harm wasn't sure if it was a good omen or not, but he flashed on the Emerald City. Once more into the breech of the great and powerful Oz.  
  
He already had courage he thought, looking at Mac. He already had heart.  
  
It was weird, when he thought about it. When Mac came into his life it was like all of a sudden he didn't want anyone else-he barely noticed other women. Hurricane Sarah came in and blew everyone else away. __________________________________  
  
There was something different about them, Harriet thought, casually watching as the Commander and the Colonel made their way through the bullpen. She nudged Bud as he walked by and nodded in their direction.  
  
"Something's going on there," she said, not taking her eyes off of them.  
  
"What do you mean?" Bud said, looking up from a file.  
  
"Bud," she said, in that wifey way of implying that he should know exactly what she was talking about.  
  
It took him a moment to catch on, but he did, watching the two of them for a moment, himself.  
  
"Harriet," he replied, in that husbandy way of implying that it was none of her business.  
  
"What?" She asked, incredulous. "They're being weird."  
  
"They're always weird."  
  
"Something's going on there," she said again, with more finality.  
  
He gave her a look.  
  
"A woman senses these things," she said, haughty. She turned toward the kitchen, hoping against hope. ________________________________________________________________________  
  
It had been a year since Chicago, and the wind kept on.  
  
For the first time in her life, she was in that schmaltzy stage of love that keeps you awake in the middle of the night and makes everyone else sick. It hadn't all been easy, though. Harm's intimacy issues were like a song that you couldn't get out of your head; persistent, annoying, and occasionally amusing. They'd had a fight the week before, but it had ultimately ended in really good make-up sex. Their arguments were triboelectric. They could work up a lather.  
  
His attitude had of course changed since that November day beside the lake, but his insecurities popped up every now and then, and usually at the exact wrong time. She remembered a particularly boring case in her first year at JAG when she'd flashed on an incident in college and burst out in laughter while the judge was addressing the members. She'd had as tough a time talking her way out of that one as Harm had to her.  
  
They'd called a tenuous truce and had spent the weekend apart; a rare thing in the year since they'd been together. But Harm had invited her over for Thanksgiving dinner that night (just the two of them), and a warm feeling had settled on her since he'd phoned.  
  
They'd both agreed to take things slowly, but it wasn't as easy as she'd thought it would be with Harm working out of a different office. Things had actually been easier to control when they were both in the same chain of command. With Harm at the Pentagon now, she wanted nothing more than to step up the timetable of their life. And that quiet urge pissed her off a little.  
  
She often thinks the SecNav would probably rather pay Harm to take off his uniform than don it everyday, but he did love those wings so. He probably slept with them under his pillow when she wasn't there. He was though, a good officer, and the Secretary of the Navy had probably seen this as an opportunity to keep his eye on the Commander a little more closely.  
  
Unfortunately, things at JAG headquarters were now infinitely more boring.  
  
She wondered if she could slip out early for dinner without anyone noticing. ________________________________  
  
Harm poured her another glass of sparkling cider and tried to mask a smile.  
  
"Remember Thanksgiving last year?" He asked.  
  
She shot him a look.  
  
"I'm trying not to, actually."  
  
He moved the salad bowl to the dining room table.  
  
"It wasn't that bad," he said.  
  
"Oh, God," she replied, covering her eyes and flashing on what was probably the most embarrassing moment in her adult life. _________________________________  
  
Bud and Harriet had asked them to their house for Thanksgiving dinner not even a week after they'd returned from the Windy City. They still hadn't told anyone at the office, save the Admiral, and were still waiting to hear from him on what their professional futures held.  
  
Harriet had been unusually quiet all evening and Bud had been unusually talkative.  
  
Mac pondered the cause as they were sitting around the dining room table.  
  
"Have you told the Admiral?" Harriet asked then, casual as you like.  
  
"Hmm?" Mac said, distracted, looking up from her plate.  
  
"Have you told the Admiral?"  
  
"Told him what?" Harm himself was slightly lost. What had they been talking about?  
  
"That you're sleeping together," Harriet said easily.  
  
Bud choked on a mouthful of stuffing before anyone could answer, and the question was lost in the uproar. Harm stood and was patting Bud's back- whose color was just starting to return to normal-and Mac was half- standing, wondering if she remembered the Heimlich. An awkward silence eventually fell over all.  
  
Harriet stood.  
  
"Well," she said cheerfully, "coffee?" ____________________________________  
  
At least they'd gotten around the issue of telling their friends, Mac thought, a year later. She smiled at Harm as they ate.  
  
He held her eyes for a moment, his expression enigmatic. He slid a single key across the table toward her slowly then, pushing with his index finger.  
  
"What's this?" She asked, taking a sip of water and staring at it. "And if you say it's the key to your heart, we're breaking up."  
  
"In that case, it's the key to my apartment."  
  
"I already have one."  
  
"I changed the locks."  
  
"Kind of late for second thoughts, Commander," She said, slipping her foot up his pant leg.  
  
"Second thoughts are impossible when you keep doing that," he said, reaching down and grasping her ankle lightly. He caught her eye. "Consider it an exercise in piece of mind. With all of the things that have happened in here, it seemed prudent."  
  
She smiled to herself.  
  
"Well, thank you."  
  
He looked at her askant. "That's only part one."  
  
She lifted her eyebrows and took another bite. "Oh. Is there a keychain, too?"  
  
"More like a proposal," he answered her, and she froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. She looked like a deer caught in headlights, and suddenly he froze, too. "Oh God! Not like that!"  
  
She visibly deflated in relief.  
  
"You don't have to act so relieved, though" he said, slightly perturbed.  
  
She leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek, appeasement offered and accepted. When she leaned back, he was wearing a smile.  
  
He stood up suddenly, and offered her his hand.  
  
"Come on," he said.  
  
He took her up to his bedroom where his closet was open, half of it empty. His bed was half unmade as well, half of his drawers open and empty.  
  
"Why do I feel like I'm in Wonka's office?" She asked.  
  
He turned to her and took her other hand.  
  
"You're the other half of my heart, Mac," he said. "It's only fair I offer you half of everything else."  
  
If the gesture wasn't so sweet, she probably would have considered his admission a little bit corny. As it was, she couldn't decide whether to cry or stick her tongue down his throat.  
  
"You don't have to move in with me," he said, "but my closet could sure use some Marine Green. There's too much blue in there, I think."  
  
She elected then to just wrap her arms around his neck and snuffle a little into his shoulder.  
  
"Hey," he said to no one in particular, "I think she likes it."  
  
______________________________________  
  
He would wonder at the brilliant clarity of the moment. Time had slowed like a rushing river of water suddenly turned to honey, and what surprised him more than the suprarational epiphany of that instant was the abiding sense of calm during it. They said it was adrenaline and chemicals pushed suddenly into the bloodstream that caused the timewarp, but Harm knew it was something else.  
  
END PART TWO 


	3. The Exponent of Breath, Part Three

NOTE: I'm the kind of writer that subscribes to the writing theory of Put Your Fingers on the Keyboard and Let the Story Tell Itself. And even I wouldn't have guessed where this one is going. Nevertheless, my fingers are on the keyboard, and this is where the story wants to go. Huge thanks again to all of you reviewers and feedbackers. You are the best, and also the only reason this story seems to be coming along at all.  
  
_______________________________  
  
PART THREE  
  
She may have avoided the highway on her way to Harm's, but she hadn't counted on the million or so people that were in the grocery store stocking up on water, canned goods, and other staples that would get them through the hour or so of snow that promised to fall. Sometimes she hated people. She'd decided to pick up things to actually make dinner, figuring that she and Harm hadn't seen each other properly in over a week. (She never used to mind their arguments back in the days at JAG, but now she hated it when they fought.) She'd also wanted to stop at the store for some other things she needed.  
  
They'd had such crappy weather in the capitol recently, that it wasn't until the night before (the first clear night in three weeks) that she'd noticed the moon. She'd done the math on her fingers in the car on the way to Harm's and her stomach had dropped in her gut and caught fire. She remembered the feeling of a shot of whiskey slashing her throat down, down, down, and she flashed on amber liquid-only for a second-she had other addictions these days. Now she unloaded the groceries onto his counter, putting each item carefully away until only one was sitting on the table before her.  
  
She stared at it for a few minutes, then made note of the time. Harm wasn't due for probably another half hour or more (his estimate of 45 minutes had been optimistic). She picked up the phone and dialed.  
  
"Harriet? Hi, I'm at Harm's and I. . . Do you think you can get away for about a half an hour? . . . Great, I need help with something. . . No, just bring yourself. . . Okay, see you soon."  
  
A gust of wind rattled the windows and she took a breath. She could do this.  
  
But she could do it better with back up.  
  
___________________________________  
  
Lauren Reed was distracted. Traffic had been poor since the snow had started to come down three hours before, and though he'd been a trucker for 15 years, he was fast approaching his threshold of highway tolerance. It didn't help that he couldn't even see the scenery on the side of the highway, such as it was, the road the only thing visible now through the snow (and even then, not by much).  
  
If he hadn't been distracted by his boredom, he likely would have seen the brake lights ahead of him in time, and would have sensed, after fifteen years of acute attention to road conditions, the black ice that covered the asphalt ahead of him. When he did finally see the cars ahead at a complete stop and reacted, slamming on his brakes just enough to not jackknife, he immediately knew he would not be able to stop in time. His only option was to plow the 18-wheeler he was driving, and the ten tons of virgin white pine logs it was carrying, into the ditch on the side of the highway. Though he was likely to lose his cargo, possibly his rig, and maybe even his life, it was better that than the vehicles and lives he would take if he didn't.  
  
If it hadn't been for the snow that fell that day, Lauren Reed would have seen that the ditch he was about to slam his truck into was actually the concrete barrier of an overpass. There was no way he would have known that his decision, made in the endeavor to save lives, would actually take far more than if he'd made a different choice, or taken a different route.  
  
Lauren Reed had been distracted. And he did not, nor would he ever, know what hit him.  
  
________________________________  
  
Mac opened the door almost before Harriet had a chance to knock on it.  
  
She greeted her friend with a brief hug and ushered her inside. Ever since the Thanksgiving dinner the year before, oddly enough, she and Harriet had grown even closer. She'd never really had a lot of girlfriends, but the lieutenant had become one of her best. Maybe it was the camaraderie of loving Navy men. No matter what it was, she was happier to see Harriet right then than anyone else she could think of. Even Harm.  
  
"So," Harriet said, brushing the snow off of her coat, "what's up? What do you need help with?"  
  
Mac took her coat and walked into the kitchen.  
  
"It's in the oven," she said.  
  
"You're cooking something?" Harriet asked cheerfully, moving to the appliance.  
  
"Not exactly," Mac answered oddly.  
  
Harriet paused with her hand on the door. She cocked her head and looked at Mac.  
  
"I couldn't look at it anymore, it was making me nervous," Mac said, by way of explanation.  
  
Harriet opened the door of the stove and flicked on the oven light. She peered in the door for a second, composed herself and stood.  
  
"There's a pregnancy test in your oven, Colonel Mackenzie," she said, all business. Inside she was shrieking like a teenager.  
  
"My cycle is lunar," Mac said, allowing herself a nervous half-smile, "it always has been. I just noticed the moon last night."  
  
"How late are you?" Harriet asked, not able to suppress a smile any longer.  
  
"A week. At least."  
  
Harriet released an excited whoop and threw open the oven door. She pulled the box out and handed it to Mac.  
  
"I hope you have to pee, Sarah," she said, pushing her toward the bathroom. ________________________________  
  
There were three entities that descended on Harmon Rabb that day: sound, movement, and pain-in that order-and then, nothing.  
  
He had never seen Godzilla (either version) so he wouldn't know that screechy roar-that terrible metal-twisting howl that seemed at once all around him. And then, if he'd had the time to think, what came next he would have classified as cannon fire.  
  
His attention would then shift from the plane of sound to that of motion. All around him, in him, every axis alight. He was shoved, tousled, pressed, pierced. Everything he was surrounded by, every element, was stampeding as if nuclei were suddenly repellent of their orbiting iota.  
  
Then, for a split second, sound and motion ceased to be. Then, pain. Everywhere. He seemed to be made of it.  
  
And just before the darkness came, a tunnel vision of memory and future. All that he was and would have been coalesced. People he barely remembered, those he had not yet met. Color, emotion, epiphany, and nothing.  
  
_________________________________  
  
END PART THREE 


	4. The Exponent of Breath, Part Four

The Exponent of Breath PART FOUR By Slippin' Mickeys red_phile@yahoo.com  
  
Classification: S, R, Mac/Harm  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Summary: Sequel to 'Tidal.' Orbits retrograde, winds shift, and you can't predict the future.  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine.  
  
Notes: This is a WIP follow-up to my story 'Tidal.' (Which you can find at ) If you and WIPs don't get along well, I wouldn't suggest reading any further! If you do decide to read, just know that I may revamp the whole damn thing. (Actually, I would count on it.) This story though, is happily dedicated to all of those JAG fans who sent me such great reviews and feedback. I wouldn't have dabbled into this fandom without you!  
  
Thanks to all of you again for the encouragement! And no worries, my friends. I only do happy endings. ;)  
  
PART FOUR  
  
Even now, cells were dividing within her and they would not stop, even if her heart had. It had gone on beating out of habit or muscle memory, but its thump was dull and sluggish. Her blood coursed through veins, aimless. For the first time ever, she had no sense of him. The tidal pull of him had snapped and now she too was floating lonesome at the mercy of the wind.  
  
She felt as though she might throw up.  
  
This is not happening, she thought, the statement a mantra.  
  
The air was think with the smell of extinguished flame. Harriet was standing halfway to the door, unmoving. She'd dropped the phone but was still hanging onto the white plastic strip in her hand, tattooed with two blue lines.  
  
She had never known such elation or such simultaneous devastation.  
  
And she would never know what she had done to deserve either.  
  
________________________________  
  
"I think this is the guy from the pickup," Andy called to Paul from the ditch, twenty feet away. Paul looked to the snow in front of him; it looked unnaturally pink and he brought his flashlight's beam around to examine it.  
  
"Yeah," he said, calling back to Andy, "I think this is, too."  
  
Paul had never seen anything like this. Granted, he'd only been a fireman for six months, but he'd seen a lot in that time. This looked like some kind of surrealist painting commenting on urban sprawl-when forest meets city in an unnatural collision. There were cars all around; in the ditch, on the road, halfway in between. Some were overturned, some crushed, some untouched. There were also massive logs, ten yards long and two thick, scattered about the scene like a giant had dropped a box of toothpicks.  
  
He radioed the captain on scene to report another casualty.  
  
He and Andy Clark had been two of the first firemen to the accident and were on their second of several sweeps to locate survivors. They hadn't found many.  
  
The snow had been kind enough to stop not long after they arrived, though the sun went on her way below the horizon, uncaring. It was getting very dark. Paul prayed they'd have the flood lights set up soon.  
  
"Hey, Paul!" A shout from Andy. "We got a Lex down here!"  
  
Paul trotted down to where Andy had called from, his flashlight beam bouncing erratically through the dark.  
  
There was a Lexus SUV overturned in the ditch, far from the highway. It was laying on its driver's side, covered in a light layer of snow and obscured from view by a massive pine log. Andy had made his way on top of the car and had busted out the passenger side window. He was leaning into it, his foot latched onto the side mirror for leverage.  
  
"We got somebody in here!" He shouted as Paul approached the car, his voice muffled.  
  
"Is he alive?" Paul asked, pulling out his radio.  
  
"Barely," Andy said, dropping down beside him.  
  
Paul called in to the captain and requested a paramedic unit.  
  
Andy scrambled back up onto the vehicle and Paul reattached his mic, assured that a unit would be to him within the minute.  
  
"Come on," Andy said, unlocking the door and swinging it up an out like a Delorean. "I think if we can rig this door to stay open, you and I can get him out."  
  
By the time they put the collar on the man and had pulled him out, the medics were waiting for them.  
  
"That a Navy uniform?" One of the medics asked, as they strapped him in.  
  
"Used to be," Paul said, looking at his hands. His gloves were soaked through with blood and wisps of steam were floating up off the tips of his fingers like some kind of ghastly superpower.  
  
"Let's go!" Andy hollered suddenly, jumping up on top of the man as they rushed him to the bus, "I lost his pulse!"  
  
He was still doing compressions as the medics closed the ambulance doors and sped off. Paul stood watching it leave, rooted in place by the moribund gravity of sticky, cold hands, painted black in the frenetic light of a pumper truck's flashers.  
  
______________________________  
  
Mac hadn't sent Harriet away after they looked at the results of the pregnancy test. It was the second most fortuitous thing to happen that day.  
  
She had dropped the phone and it had broken-black plastic pieces scattered about the floor, the mangled receiver dangling four plastic-wrapped batteries from a clasping wire.  
  
When it came to remembering that night, that was what struck her-that she would have to remember to wear shoes in his apartment (for fear of stepping on sharp plastic pieces) and that she would have to buy him a new phone.  
  
Harm had taken her to an art gallery that summer, the exhibit an artist's idea of Life on canvas. There had been a piece on love, another on death, on birth, and each of the senses. The gallery had been empty, save for the two of them while they visited, and they'd stolen a kiss in front of the canvas depicting touch. The building that housed the gallery had had a distinctive smell she'd detected as soon as she walked in; a combination of dust, paint and the lush, earthy perfume of springtime. For some reason, now, while she stood in the middle of Harm's apartment, her heart beating dead in her chest, and Harriet before her with frightened tears in her eyes, she flashed on the olfactory engram of that gallery, and it was all she allowed herself to feel.  
  
Harriet finally came to herself and grabbed both her coat and Mac's.  
  
"Come on, sweetheart," she said, "we have to go."  
  
_______________________________  
  
Though Harriet hated to admit it, what Harm and Mac had between them was, and always had been, stronger than the love that existed between she and Bud. It was a more elemental emotion and went quite a bit deeper. She had begun to understand, as she got to know them, where the world's epic poems came from, and would always harbor a secret theory that love like that was borne of a soul being ripped apart somewhere in the ether, and sent to earth forcibly siphoned into two different people.  
  
Such was the agony of being apart, and the lost, incomplete look she saw in Sarah Mackenzie's eyes from the waiting room chairs of Fairfax Mercy Hospital.  
  
From what Harriet had gleaned from the brief talk she'd had with the Commander's doctor, there had been a terrible accident, Harm had coded on the way to the hospital, and was now in surgery.  
  
This was not, she thought somewhat morbidly, how she thought the Commander would go. She'd always pictured his end something a bit more Hollywood- esque and entirely Harmon Rabb Jr.'s fault.  
  
With this thought in mind, she was taken by surprise and more than a bit kafiric when the doctor came down the hallway toward them with his surgical cap in his hands and sympathy on his tongue.  
  
________________________________  
  
Mac had taken the news that Harm would not last the night with an easy acceptance that frightened even her. And yet, she could feel even now, the absence of him. It was the machine's that were keeping him alive now, not the spark that you could see when he gave you a sideways smile. That part of him that she knew was gone, and she'd known it the very second it had vanished.  
  
Contrary to Harriet and the doctor's repeated urgings to see him and say goodbye, she had determined to leave the hospital, not really sure where she would go, but absolutely certain in her conviction to never lay eyes on the empty vessel that had once contained him. If they thought it heartless and cold of her, they could go on believing it, she knew it was very much the opposite.  
  
So it came as some surprise what happened to her on the pockmarked asphalt of the Fairfax Mercy parking lot. A flash of a dream she'd once had and Harriet's nervous chatter in the background, she was halfway to the car when she felt it.  
  
Her blood surged to the surface of her skin as if seeking escape from the confines of her body. It hit her like quicksilver, like afterglow.  
  
She turned back toward the hospital without a second thought, pulled by the invisible tether of him, a confused Harriet in her wake. And if she had ever doubted the presence of a benevolent entity in the universe, or a forgiving element of nature itself, she never would again.  
  
Despite doctor's assurances to the contrary and the litany of injuries they'd talked her through, Harmon Rabb was back, and very much alive.  
  
END PART FOUR 


	5. The Exponent of Breath, Part Five

Author's Note: There may not be many of you left, but for those that have stuck with me with encouragement, I must send a hearty, HEARTY thank you! Your reviews have kept me writing! And if you're curious about the direction the story seems to be taking-so am I. Things are getting interesting. Thanks for sticking with me!  
  
PART FIVE  
  
At first, all he could do was hear. There was nothing to see, nothing to feel, no sense of himself.  
  
The sound came gradually. Muffled voices, bits of conversation. A baby crying in the distance and a chair being pushed back from a table. Gum snapping, an elevator quietly announcing the floor, laughter, a cell phone ringing, a door closing, keys jangling. Ambient noise; nothing and everything at the same time.  
  
Next came sights, smells, his feet were on the floor and he was all there. From the periphery things began to appear to him and when he'd turn to look at them, there they would be, filling in from the sides and taking shape.  
  
No one seemed to notice his arrival, and he was not surprised by this. No one was surprised by him.  
  
It could have been a dream state, and probably was, but felt real enough. The Berber carpet through the soles of his shoes and the smell of book ink and coffee and the hazy smell of people; perfume and bubblegum and wool sweaters.  
  
But this wasn't reality per say. This was slower. He felt as though each move he made was calculated though he didn't think about what he was doing. And what he was doing now was walking up a staircase in a bookstore he had never been in.  
  
The vague thought of the queerness of the situation was not lost on him, but neither did it matter. He was where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to do and not the least bit surprised to see Sarah Mackenzie leaning against the large pane of glass against the storefront windows, looking down and out into the street, a small, gentle smile on her face. The sun was streaming in through the window giving her a dreamy, haloed quality and he noticed, perhaps for the first time ever, the tiny, downy fuzz on her face, the pink twin pillows of her lips, the way the hair on one side of her face was just a little bit longer than the hair on the other.  
  
She didn't acknowledge him and he didn't say anything, merely followed her gaze to the avenue below, devoid of traffic or people but certainly not empty.  
  
There was a boy standing in the street holding a bulky book. He stood next to a large chestnut horse that swished it's tail in the sunlight and stamped it's foot, though not impatiently.  
  
Mac moved her hand to the glass, pressing against it gently, and finally turned to Harm. She pointed to the street below, touched his hand, and spoke.  
  
_________________________________  
  
They only let her into his hospital room for five minutes before the alarms started going off and they pushed her into the hallway, confusion and surprise left in her wake. But as she stood there, she looked at him, in him-perhaps for the first time ever-she was surprised by the fragility of the body before her considering the strength of the man it contained.  
  
He was a pusher of buttons, in all senses of the word. He always knew exactly what to say to a witness to piss them off or make them talk. He liked mixing it up and he loved to fly, and she would have bet even money he'd been the kind of kid to jump on the elevator and push every floor.  
  
He was haughty but conscientious-a know-it-all who didn't know when to quit. He was presumptuous and capricious and he was energy: potential and kinetic at the same time. __________________________________  
  
Oddly enough, Harm was more than a bit surprised at the pain he felt-fuzzy though it may have been-and the fact that when he opened his eyes, or rather, the one that wasn't swollen shut, he seemed to be in a hospital room. It was unlikely this was heaven, and he'd expected his hell to be much worse.  
  
At first, the voices he heard were muffled and mono, and not sounding altogether different from the voices of adults in a Peanuts cartoon. They had gradually, however, taken on a more understandable cadence he recognized as low, argumentative voices there were not quite whispers.  
  
"Look, I can understand her need to say goodbye and her somewhat fragile state at the moment, but I did not expect to be pulled out of surgery by some guilt-wracked lawyer with a hard-on for a life with her boyfriend that is over."  
  
"Jesus, Roger, who's heart did you remove in there?"  
  
A sigh of resignation. "I'm sorry, Gene, it's just been a really long day."  
  
"No kidding." A tone of derision.  
  
"Okay, point taken. But as far as this guy is concerned, we're all playing harps right now. Prescribe the woman some valium if you have to, Gene, you don't need my permission."  
  
"Dr. Corran, I don't think you understand what I'm trying to tell you."  
  
Harm could hear the curtain around his bed being yanked back, and he cracked an eye to look at two men in white lab coats. "Hello," he said, his voice cracked and raw even to his own ears.  
  
A moment of hesitation, and then a startled and emphatic proclamation from whom he could only assume was Dr. Corran.  
  
"Holy shit."  
  
Angels, they were not.  
  
__________________________________  
  
Pulsar bursts of color in a world of black and white, with no sound but latent sonic booms and the creaking of snow.  
  
Last year for Christmas, he'd taken her to Canada and rented a lake cabin that was always too warm. They'd throw boots on over jeans and wool socks and traipse out into the night and onto the frozen lake to cool off. For four days straight, the ski resort a few miles away would shoot fireworks off at 9:30 and they would stop and watch on their airing. They'd hold hands with gloves on and feel juvenile for doing so.  
  
Mac's nose would get pink and Harm would open his mouth to say that he could die happy, right then, but stop with the words on the tip of his tongue, because they weren't entirely true.  
  
Of course, he wouldn't know that until later.  
  
__________________________________  
  
What was considered to be the most fortuitous thing to happen that day was a point of contention in the lives of those involved and would be hotly debated for decades.  
  
This could have been because neither Harm nor Mac would say for certain, but it was probably because everyone else thought it was magic.  
  
"I knew I wasn't finished," Harm would always eventually say. He would wink at Mac, and then, "And anyway, she came pushing sixteen horses." With that, the discussion would end, though no one, with the exception of Harm and Mac, ever knew quite why.  
  
_________________________________  
  
"So. . . What exactly happened?" She would ask him, days later.  
  
"I got hit by a Mack truck," he would say, with what amounted to a smile. "Ironic."  
  
It was the first time in days she'd been able to joke.  
  
"I heard it was a Freightliner."  
  
"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."  
  
His left eye was finally able to open and she looked directly into it.  
  
"Come on, Harm," she would say, turning serious, "you know what I mean. How are you back? What do you remember?" For some reason, it was very important to her that she know.  
  
He sobered a bit, himself. It was hard for him to focus; he was on a lot of drugs.  
  
"I remember you."  
  
"You remember talking to me?"  
  
"No. Yes, I mean, I remember talking to you, but that's not what I meant."  
  
He closed his eyes and for a moment she thought he'd fallen asleep. She reached out to smooth the hair off of his forehead and he opened them again.  
  
"I mean, it was you," he said, and she took his right hand. It was about the only part of his body that hadn't seen any damage. "In the car, after it happened," he went on to explain, and then paused, licking his lips. Mac reached over and grabbed him what he kindly referred to as 'water-on-a- stick.' He sucked on it gratefully. When she'd put it back in the glass and turned to him, she was startled to find him looking at her pointedly. "I thought I heard you coming," he finished, with gravity.  
  
She flashed on him in a Marine drill sergeant's uniform. His eyes held hers.  
  
"I had a dream once," she said, understanding dawning on her-the memory a revelation.  
  
"I had it, too, Mac" he said. "I have it all the time." ________________________________  
  
She'd mentioned once that he'd broken laws for her, and that for some reason that warmed her heart.  
  
For her he would have broken laws of physics, of time. For her he would create matter, destroy it, push an immovable object through an impenetrable force.  
  
That was a definiens of love. One of many. Selflessness defined. ________________________________  
  
It would figure that the day she'd made the decision to wait until he was out of the hospital to tell him he was going to be a father, was the day she started to get morning sickness.  
  
Her life was like one of those tilting, lava-filled office sculptures that had been so popular in the eighties-she couldn't get quite level. There was a cosmic force out there that had decided to focus on her and it was starting to piss her off.  
  
Two weeks after he was admitted to the hospital, he was still in the same room. There were only so many things you could do in a hospital room and boredom hung thick in the air. She was sitting there feeling nauseous and he was sitting there being nosy and she just blurted it out, surprising even herself.  
  
She'd looked to the floor after she'd said it as if it had actually fallen out of her mouth and she could grab it and stuff it back in before he noticed.  
  
No such luck. __________________________________  
  
The end is the beginning is the end. And for all of his pluck and fortitude, his breath was taken from him.  
  
"How?" He asked dumbly, bereft, at the time, of anything else to say.  
  
"How do you think?" Genius, she wanted to add.  
  
This was not exactly going the way she'd imagined it would. Of course, with Harm, nothing ever had.  
  
"I know, but we used. . ." He faltered a little and she moved to sit down next to him. "I mean, I know they're not. . . They should put that on the box."  
  
She wanted to laugh. Instead, she stroked his hair.  
  
"They do," she said. "Are you okay?"  
  
His breath left him in a little gush of air. If he wouldn't have been sitting, his knees would have buckled under him.  
  
"I'm scared, Mac," he said with complete honesty. "I'm completely fucking terrified."  
  
Now probably wasn't a good time to mention that she was, too.  
  
_______________________________  
  
She lived her life with a lot of empty places and she'd only lately come to recognize that somewhere along the way, most of them had been filled.  
  
When she met him, he was clean-cut and dashing with a swagger in his step and bruises on his heart. She remembered once thinking that he could bring the word 'rapscallion' back into the popular American lexicon. Now, he was humbled and rebuilt, and the only bruises he carried were those you could see.  
  
She liked to think that he'd filled her empty places and that she'd filled his right back.  
  
Perhaps it's a harsh lesson learned by those both cursed and brave, that only when you open your heart do you recognize the emptiness that resides there, and only when you confront death do you recognize life.  
  
The beginning is the end is the beginning. What happened next was decidedly not in the game plan.  
  
END PART FIVE  
  
_________________________________ red_phile@yahoo.com 


	6. The Exponent of Breath, Epilogue

I'm doing something a little unfair, here. While I had originally intended to take this story much further, I also recognize that as it is, it's a finished story in itself. Real life, as its wont to do, has suddenly stepped in front of me and pointed me in another direction. I will no longer have the time to dedicate to this story or universe, and it's really only fair that I stop here. This marks the end of my JAG fic career, and that of fanfic itself. (Though I've learned to never say never) A HUGE thanks to everyone who sent me encouragement and shared their thoughts on my writing. I am truly endebted to you.  
  
If you want to read this story in it's entirety, you can find it here:  
  
And here, my friends, is the rest...  
  
_________________________________  
  
EPILOGUE  
  
What happened next was this: Nothing. Everything. What happened next was life.  
  
Days and years passed. Minutes, seconds. Sometimes time eked by and sometimes it flew.  
  
We all take our lives for granted and live each day waiting for the next. But here are two people that have seen what most of us do not. Their game plan had changed when fate interceded-a dream helped guide their future when a nightmare stepped in their path.  
  
Here are two people that lead a remarkable life. Forever changed by the unrelenting equipoise of time and the events that mark its passage. By the knowledge that if love is the exponent of breath, life itself is the act of breathing.  
  
THE END  
  
__________________________________  
  
Thanks for sharing the ride. In the immortal words of Bill & Ted, be excellent to each other.  
  
Let me know if you liked, yell at me for abbreviation, ask me my favorite flavor of popsicle: red_phile@yahoo.com 


End file.
